


House Fic

by jezziejay



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Slash, Spoilers, post ep fics, preslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 14:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezziejay/pseuds/jezziejay
Summary: A collection of House MD fics and ficlets.  Reposted from LJ.  Individual tags in the notes of each story.





	1. Wednesday's Child (is full of woe)

**Author's Note:**

> Post Finale Ficlet. Cancer Arc. House/Wilson friendship/pre-slash.
> 
> Wilson decides to die on a Wednesday.

Wilson decides to die on a Wednesday

It's always been a big day for him.

He was born on a Wednesday. He lost his virginity on a Wednesday. He married Sam on a Wednesday. He met House on a Wednesday.

He talks Foreman through everything beforehand. “You’ll to be the one who identifies me. Chances are I won’t be looking my best, what with the illness, and not taking care of myself. Best that my parents remember me as I was. Tell them the coffin was sealed as soon as Tahara was done. We’ve already found a chevra kadisha.”

Foreman sighs heavily down the line. “When I agreed to be the executor of your will, I wasn’t signing up for this. What you’re asking me to do isn’t just immoral, it’s illegal.”

“And for the best,” Wilson insists. “I’m not coming back, not even when I’m dead. Let them have a funeral, and then the waiting will be over, and one day, their grief will be, too. They can get on with their lives.”

“ _Or_ ,” Foreman tries. “You could come home and spend some time with your family.”

“We’re not close,” Wilson reasons. “We haven’t been close in a long time. But if I come back, I’m going to be the one reassuring them, doing what they want to do, worrying about them, feeling guilty for getting sick, for dying. And I’m done with that, Foreman. I’m living the rest of _my_ life for _me_.”

For a long minute there’s nothing but the sharp sounds of Foreman’s breathing down the line. “And when you do die, I’m assuming that you have arrangements made for your real burial,” he says eventually. “And also I assume that these will be taken care of by the same Mr. Clemens that’s named as sole beneficiary of your estate.”

“Yes,” Wilson says, and offers no more, even though Foreman is clearly waiting for something.

“Okay,” Foreman says after another silence. “Where?”

“Missouri.”

“Missouri? What are you doing in Missouri?”

“My remains are in Missouri,” Wilson corrects. “As are my instructions. When you get to the mortuary, you’ll be met by, uh, a guy, and he’ll tell you what you do.”

“A guy,” Foreman drawls. “And will this guy have a long beard or a hunch or a Freddy Krueger mask? Two limps, maybe?”

Wilson bites back a laugh. “What?”

“House,” Foreman says. “Is that who is going to meet me at the mortuary?”

“Foreman,” Wilson says, slowly, like he’s talking to a very young child. “House is dead.”

*****

Wilson is buried on a glorious Thursday, three weeks after the death of his best friend. House lies still on the floor of the synagogue’s loft, trying not to breathe in the dust bunnies. The damp heat clamps his shirt to his back, making him itchy and squirmy.

There’s a gap in the plaster that lets him see only the first eight rows of seats. That’s fine with him; all the important people would sit up the front anyway.

He can’t see Wilson’s coffin. That’s also fine.

Foreman is the first to arrive, closely followed by Wilson’s parents, brother and other family members. House recognises them all from photographs that are now boxed up in vault somewhere.

He wasn’t expecting a big crowd. Missouri is far away from everyone Wilson knows. _Knew._

But Chase is here. And Cameron, Taub, Park, Thirteen, two ex-wives and a couple of nurses that House can’t be bothered identifying. There are others, but they have heads that he isn’t too familiar with from behind.

The beers under his discarded jacket are beginning to become lukewarm, but House waits for the service to begin before pulling them out and quietly popping the tops.

He holds the offering out in the semi-darkness, smirking when he feels it pulled from his hand.

“Alcohol, House? Seriously?”

“Wil-son, it’s a _fun_ -eral.”

“Yeah, well scootch over and let me see who else is having a good time,” Wilson huffs, sliding alongside House, foam spilling over the top of his bottle as his elbows shuffle on the floorboards.

They drink quietly through some music, and the out of view Rabbi says some words that House doesn’t listen to.

Wilson’s father is the first to eulogise. He speaks of a loving son, a good brother, a boy who gave until there was sometimes little of himself left. There are a couple of anecdotes that make the congregation smile, like they’re remembering them, too.

The soft sob from Wilson’s mom is a bit of a buzzkill.

“We had to do it,” House whispers. “Your brother nearly found us in Chicago.”

“Because you used my credit card,” Wilson returns.

“Because we had no cash left.” House chooses his next words carefully. “It was dragging this out for them, too.”

“So you did this for them?” Wilson scoffs. “Not for two hotdogs and a giant slurpee?”

The aisle of the synagogue is a busy one, colleagues and those related by blood and broken vows traipsing up the stone steps to remember the still living deceased.

“He was a good doctor,” Chase tells them.

“Wilson was a great ally,” Thirteen says.

“James was a bad husband, but a wonderful friend,” Julie sniffs. Sam stays in her seat, offering neither confirmation nor denial. House bores holes into her back, pleased when she shifts uncomfortably, as if aware of a spectre’s sinister presence.

“What’s it like, being at your own funeral?”

Wilson makes a face. “It’s…weird, a bit boring, even.” He sounds almost disappointed. “It’s also hot and uncomfortable.”

“Maybe this kid will liven things up a little,” House says when a young man with dark hair and a sombre suit climbs the podium.

Wilson sits up sharply, eyebrows rising. “Oh my god,” he gasps.

“What?” House demands, watching as the kid wipes his palms in the creases of his pants. “Who is -”

“My name is Mikey Kimble and I’m alive today because of Dr. Wilson,” the kid begins. “When I was just six years old, he treated me for bilateral retinoblastoma. Saved my life and my vision. I went into remission and moved to California with my family.” He looks up from his notes, smiling softly at his audience. Public Speaking 101. “The cancer returned when I was fifteen. I lost my left eye.”

House had already called that - kid has no peripheral vision. He has to turn his head a full forty-five degrees to see half of the synagogue.

“I wanted to give up. Call endgame. But Dr. Wilson saved me again, even without him being there. I remembered him telling me that we had a fight on our hands. _Our_ hands. I felt like somebody was holding me.”

Wilson’s mom sobs again, and Mikey politely waits for her to collect herself.

“When I lost my eye, I felt those same hands holding me again, and I fought because I had so much to live for. My family. My girl. My college degree. My future. My life. I fought because Dr. Wilson taught me how.”

That was why House lost the battle. Stay alive for _me_ should have been stay alive for _you_.

“I don’t know how Dr. Wilson died, but I hope he fought. I hope he had things worth fighting for.”

There’s a small window of time for Wilson to change his mind, to take treatment. But it’s the tiniest of cracks, and if House sticks his fingers in there, it’s going to slam shut. Permanently shut.

Foreman is the last to speak. He shakes Mikey’s hand as they pass each other, and takes his place, adjusting the microphone. He begins speaking immediately, his voice grave but soft. “When I heard that Dr. Wilson had died in Missouri, for some reason I thought of a quote from _Tom Sawyer_. ‘Ah, if he could only die temporarily.’ And I think that best sums up how many of us are feeling today. How hard it is to believe that Dr. Wilson is dead. How we can’t accept that he’s no longer with us.”

“Son of a bitch,” House mutters. “Mr. Clemens doth doff his hat to you, sir.”

“Full marks for concept and execution,” Wilson agrees.

House nods in admiration. “He’s always done his best sarcasm in a genuine tone.”

“I first met Wilson when I started working for House,” Foreman continues. “And for those of you who didn’t know House, well. I’m sure you heard about House.”

The congregation titters a little, with most of snorts coming from the PPTH contingent.

“I had a feeling that my funeral would somehow become about you,” Wilson drawls.

“I once asked Wilson how he could stand being friends with House,” Foreman says. “And he said that the proper office of a friend is to side with you when you are in the wrong. Nearly anybody will side with you when you are in the right.” He laughs quietly. “Which, strangely enough, is a quote from Mark Twain.” He looks up then, mouth quirking when he finds the crack in the ceiling. “House was Wilson’s best friend. And Wilson was House’s. Wherever they are, they’re together, looking down at us, enjoying the show.” Without taking his eyes from the ceiling, Foreman begins to slowly clap his hands, and just as slowly the congregation join him, rising to their feet, a standing ovation to two departed souls.

House and Wilson raise their beers in an unseen salute.

*****

The sticky Missouri heat is everything House has ever read about. The sun is like a weight pinning him flat on his back in the middle of a field.

Wilson is starfished beside him, clucking his tongue every now and then. “What now?” he asks.

House wipes the sweat from his eyes. “Whatever you want, Wilson. We’re officially ghosts now. We can do anything we want.”

It was Thursday, and Thursday’s child has far to go.

*****


	2. Hey, Hey, I Saved the World Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Finale Ficlet. Cancer Arc. A bit more slashy this time.
> 
> Can be read as a sequel to Wednesday's Child, or a stand alone.
> 
> Florida is hot and bright.

Florida is hot and bright. Wilson wears shades most of the time, finds the glare of the sun casts an unreal haze over everything. He feels at home.

“You should feel at home,” House says, swirling a celery stick around his Virgin Bloody. All vodka, no tomato juice. “Look around you. This is where people come to die.”

“Shut up, House,” Wilson says, leaning back in his chair and lifting his shaded eyes towards the sun. He pats his stomach contentedly.

“You might want to begin watching what you eat, too. We’re going to have to get you a floral fat dress and a motorised scooter if you keep opting for all you can eat. You do know that’s a suggestion, not a challenge.”

“Shut up, House,” Wilson repeats.

*****

They rented a motel apartment six days ago. It’s just one step north of seedy – nothing matches even though most things are brown, the ‘stove’ is a four ring hot plate with just two working rings, and the electric bug zapper became a casualty of House’s cane on day three. They lived to regret that one.

But it’s clean, the air con works, and there’s a little outdoor area that’s just theirs. It’s the little things in life.

House itches to move on.

“A couple more days,” Wilson insists, despite House’s pout. “We have time,” he shrugs.

“No, Wilson. We _really_ don’t. And by we, I mean you.”

“Two more days. That’s it.” Wilson holds up a placating hand. “Let me take you out tonight.”

House’s eyes roll. “On a date?” he snips with a sarcastic wince.

“Sure,” Wilson smiles. “Why not?”

“Oh, whatever shall I wear?”

Wilson ignores House’s coquettish eye batting and arm flailing. “Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he says generously.

*****  
Seven hours later, House declares it to be the worst date he has ever been on. “Barn dancing and a bar quiz. Do you even know me?”

“Better than anyone. You mocked the dancers, had a lengthy argument with the entire band, and you got to be right about absolutely everything. You also took full advantage of happy hour, and your face says that you really enjoyed those chicken wings.” Wilson points a finger at House’s mouth, circling it in an O shape. “And I paid for everything. Including the damage. The only way this night could have gone any better is if you were driving a monster truck home with a hooker in your lap.” He jiggles the key into the lock and twists until the door opens. “And I don’t see either of those quite working out, considering the amount you’ve had to drink.”

House steps in behind him. “You couldn’t fit a monster truck between the bar and this dump.”

“So you had less limping to do,” Wilson says, snapping the lights on. “See? Perfect.”

House grunts and makes his way to the sofa. “So, what’s the plan here?” he asks, grimacing when he lands on an errant spring. This place is going to give him tetanus.

“Plan?” Wilson says blankly, flopping down beside him and toeing his shoes off.

“Yeah, you know, distracting me with lame dates and making sure that I’m drunk enough so as not to see tomorrow before noon. I can’t help but feel that you’re making me mellow and fuzzy for a reason.”

“Jesus,” Wilson groans. “Are you so strung out for a puzzle that you’ll invent one? There is no mystery, House. We went out tonight and had fun. That was the agenda.”

“Right,” House says, drawing it out – _riiiiiiiight._ “So, when I wake up tomorrow, you won’t be sneaking in the door, smelling suspiciously like hospital for the second time this week?”

Wilson shuts his eyes. Why is he even surprised. “I don’t want you to interfere,” he says quietly.

“I won’t.” House actually has the nerve to sound affronted.

“You will,” Wilson grits, dragging his eyes open and fixing them on the window. “It’s what you do.”

“It’s what I _did._ When I lived in Princeton. But having been to denial, bargaining, anger, guilt, and my own death, I’m now living right here with you in Acceptance, Florida.”

Wilson eyes him skeptically before looking away with a rude snort.

“Hey.” House taps their ankles together gently, and when Wilson turns to him again, House creeps closer and there’s no time for a _what the hell_ before House kisses him, mouth open just enough for Wilson to taste barbeque sauce and scotch.

“See,” he snaps as soon as House pulls away. “I knew it. I fucking knew you wouldn’t let this go…what was that even…are you that much of an asshole that you’ll pull this out of the bag so I’ll…” He trails off, hands bunching into furious fists.

“You’ll what?” House prompts mildly.

Wilson takes a few steadying breaths. “I knew you didn’t give up.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. That was you. But I accepted it. It’s your life, your death, your choice. ”

Wilson opens his mouth to say something indignant, but closes it again, the fight seeping out of him. When House cups a hand around his neck to pull him closer for another kiss, he goes easily, pliant and soft, and just for a minute, he’s going to let himself have this, let himself be grounded by House’s warmth and solidity.

“I’m not trying to manipulate you into anything, Wilson,” House says when he pulls away. He sinks back into the sofa, breaking all contact and Wilson really wants to follow it. But he doesn’t.

“So why did you kiss me then?”

House says nothing for a minute, just studies Wilson quietly, his eyes curious. “You’re not getting worse. Well, you are, but you’re not feeling worse. It’s easier to accept a death sentence when it’s half a year away. It’s another thing altogether when it’s knocking at your door, especially when you’re feeling physically fine. This isn’t about _me_ accepting your pending doom, Hector Projector, it’s about _you_ accepting it.”

Wilson plucks absently at the crease in his pants. If they were in high school, he would tell House that he was the biggest know-it-all that ever knew-it-all. “I thought I’d be sicker, and I thought that would help me come to terms with things. I pictured myself slowly becoming more tired and listless, until I was just ready to let go.” He laughs hollowly. “I thought I’d slide to the finish, didn’t think I’d get kicked to it. Stupid, huh? Whining because I’m healthier than I should be.”

“Meh,” House says. “To be fair, you’d probably be whining if you were sicker, too.”

Wilson smiles. “I guess. But my five months is almost up, and I’m not ready. I’m no more ready to die now than I was before we left Princeton.” He has dreams, crazy dreams, one in particular. He’s known for a long time that he’s going on vacation, but he hasn’t renewed his passport, he hasn’t packed, or ordered a cab to the airport, or bought sunscreen, or found a book for the flight. And he has to go. He has to go now.

But he’s not ready.

“I went to Jackson Memorial for scans. I figured there must be growth at this stage, and even if I can’t feel it, I can see it. And then -” He shrugs, his shoulder brushing against House’s. “Then it might be real.”

“Results in the morning?”

Wilson nods.

“Want me to come?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

House smirks. “Like I said, it’s not me that’s struggling with this. This is your show, Wilson.” He stands and begins slowly to make his way towards the bedroom.

“Hey,” Wilson calls. “You still haven’t told me why you kissed me.”

“The first time was because I wanted to,” House says without turning around. “The second time was to show you that I was kissing you because I wanted to, and also, because I wanted to.”

“You caught me at a vulnerable moment,” Wilson says as House disappears around the corner. “Next time I’ll punch you in the face.”

House’s head reappears, eyebrows arched. “Next time?”

*****

Wilson’s travelled thousands of miles over the past four months, and yet he’s gone absolutely nowhere.

“That’s…weird,” he concludes, poring over the images.

“It’s hard for me to know for sure without having access to your previous scans,” Dr. Anderson says.

“You really don’t need them. They just look just like these ones.” He taps his fingers on the film. “It has spread from the fatty tissue and into the lymph nodes, but it hasn’t hit any of the vital organs yet. My lungs are clear.”

Anderson shrugs. “It’s not that unusual for cancers to progress erratically. It happens. But you do realise that it’s still advanced enough. Late stage two, type AB tumor. Probably even early stage three. Could be too soon to see metastasis yet, but it’s inevitable, especially as it’s in your lymphatic system now. It’s just developing atypically, but it is developing. Remission is unlikely, but with treatment you could have…”

“Three years, yeah, I know.”

“Longer, maybe. Five, even. If we’re dealing with containment, chemo could be as little as one week on, three weeks off. That’s very doable.”

“No guarantee those three weeks off will be worth living,” Wilson says, and leaves it there because he’s sick of defending his own choices.

“So, what now?” Anderson asks.

“More waiting,” Wilson replies.

“More living.”

“Yeah, that too.”

*****

But mostly waiting. Waiting to feel physical proof that this is real. Waiting for it to get worse. Waiting to die.

Waiting to pay for a can of soda.

He’s pulled from his own head by a loud shout and there’s a blur of noise and movement before he sees it. A young store worker with wild eyes and a growing stain in the groin of his beige chinos, yanked still by a gun to his temple.

“Open the till,” his captor orders. He’s another kid, maybe eighteen, nineteen, without even the good sense to adorn a ski-mask.

Wilson was about to hand over his soda to be scanned. It’s cold and wet in his palm.

The till opens with a whoosh that’s cut off by the sound of sirens, and there’s a lot more commotion as the crazy kid is dragging the terrified kid towards the back room.

“Hey,” Wilson shouts over to him. “Let him go. Take me instead.”

And he’s never been so glad that House isn’t here to hear that, because that’s a lifetime worth of mockery right there. _Take me instead_.

But the kid’s considering it. Probably because the store worker has six inches on both him and Wilson, and maybe more than fifty pounds.

He never gets to do more than consider it because there are other people bursting in the door, and Wilson's crossing the floor, launching himself at the gunman. He’s not even sure who he’s trying to save. Or kill. But the gun is very suddenly very close and maybe that should be it. Maybe he could go now, quickly and painlessly. Maybe Wilson should take death before death takes him.

The muzzle is kissing his forehead, and The End has been staring him in the face for months now, but this is the first time he’s looked back at it.

His guts churn a little and he’s feels like he can’t breathe, like he might choke, and here it is, the first physical proof that he's going to die.

This is what he’s been waiting for.

What it feels like to really be alive.

****

The cop is a little too pissy for Wilson’s liking. “Sir, you could have been killed,” he says, hands on hips.

“I have cancer,” Wilson says blandly. “Dying anyway.”

The cop – just another kid – and when did everybody get so young – just stares. He really doesn’t know what to do with that.

“If it helps, my ears are aching,” Wilson offers. They are. He’ll have tinnitus for days.

The cop hums a little until Wilson tells him that he’s leaving.

Rebel that he is now, he takes the unpaid for can of soda with him. If they're looking for it, they know where he lives.

He’s done with waiting, doesn’t bother wearing his shades on the ride home. Let the world be unreal and out of focus. Wilson’s still tethered to it.

****

He finds House sitting out in their little terrace, in just basketball shorts. There’s a medical journal on his lap and glass of Virgin Bloody in his hand.

“Bit early,” Wilson says, although he’s seriously thinking of joining him.

“Thought I’d get a head start on the celebrations? Or commiserations?” He stops when Wilson rolls his eyes. “Or the minding my own business. Whatever.”

Wilson pulls out the other chair that isn’t even close to matching the one House is sitting on. “It’s gone as far as the lymph nodes, and no further.”

“Really?” House sits up a little more. “That would certainly explain why you’re feeling so well.”

Wilson flops down onto the warm plastic seat. “Yeah.”

“So, I guess you’re revising your initial five month diagnosis to at least ten?”

Wilson tilts his head, and answers as conversationally as he can, “Yeah, ten months. Or maybe three years.”

House doesn’t, or can’t, say anything. Wilson’s not sure – he’s not looking at him.

“So, how do you feel about living in Florida for a while?” Wilson asks. “In a better place than this, of course.”

“I could learn to love it,” House says slowly. Carefully.

“Good,” Wilson says, nodding decisively. “Hey, you know what else I did this morning? I foiled a robbery.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m a fucking hero, House.” Wilson takes the soda from his pocket and sets it on the table. “I’m also a thief.”

House says nothing but Wilson watches his Adam’s apple bob a couple of times. “You’re thinking about kissing me again, aren’t you?”

“Depends,” House says after a few seconds. “Would that be something you are amenable to?”

“No,” Wilson answers, quickly, just to be a dick.

“Then, no, that wasn’t what I was thinking at all.”

“Liar,” Wilson laughs. He pops the ring-pull on his can and raises it. “Cheers.”

House holds up his own glass. “What are we drinking to?”

“The last of my good looks. I’m going to go bald, _and_ I’m going to lose my manly curves.”

“I’d still hit that,” House says breezily.

Wilson looks from House’s skinny calves to his thinning hair. “Me, too,” he says, and laughs when House almost chokes on his vodka.

****


	3. Positive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 3ish. House/Wilson established.
> 
>  
> 
> _Wilson shifts around the bed in search of a cool spot and somewhere to breathe. His lungs are crushed, his chest barely rising as he gulps in shallow gasps. A hand smoothes over his swollen abdomen, tracing idly over the stretched skin. He thinks about the thing inside him. What it looks like. How fast it’s growing. When it’s going to come out. How different everything will be -_

_Wilson shifts around the bed in search of a cool spot and somewhere to breathe. His lungs are crushed, his chest barely rising as he gulps in shallow gasps. A hand smoothes over his swollen abdomen, tracing idly over the stretched skin. He thinks about the thing inside him. What it looks like. How fast it’s growing. When it’s going to come out. How different everything will be -_

He’s still panting when he wakes up, his eyes unseeing in the dark.

“What’s wrong?” House grumbles disinterestedly from the other side of the bed.

Wilson palms his racing heart. “Nothing,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”

House does. Wilson doesn’t.

*****

_He’s so tired. All the time._

_“It was like that for me, too,” his mom says, laughing softly. “Maybe this is some sort of karma.”_

_Wilson doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t think he deserves this._

_He doesn’t want this._

_It’s not fair._

He doesn’t know what drags him from this dream. It’s quiet, quiet enough for him to know that House isn’t home yet. Wilson turns and wriggles to the other side of the bed, pressing his face into a cooler pillow. It’s harder than his, flatter. But it smells like House, and that’s enough to pull him back into black.

*****

_He stares at the ceiling until the doctor tells him he can get dressed again. Her tone is practical, impersonal, calm. It’s textbook._

_Wilson drags the sheet up to his waist and tries to shimmy his pants back over his hips._

_The doctor glances up from her clipboard. “You should look,” she says quietly. “Some change to the genitalia is to be expected. It’s normal.”_

_None of this normal, he thinks. None of it._

His eyes shutter in protest of the sudden light. “Wha’?” he grumbles.

“What indeed,” House drawls.

Wilson forces his eyelids open. House is lying on his front, his head propped up on folded arms.

“What?” Wilson says again.

House’s gaze drops to Wilson’s groin, and Wilson’s follow. “Huh,” he says, snapping his hand out of his own boxers. He hadn’t even known it was there.

“So,” House says with far too much nonchalonce. ‘Is this why you’ve been knocking my hands away? Gone back to liking your own better?”

Wilson can feel himself blink a few times. “No,” he says, running a tongue over his dry lips. “It was just. I was checking.”

“Checking.” House sounds dull, muted. “For what?”

Wilson shrugs. “In my dream. I was checking that it was all there.”

House looks at him strangely. “And is it?”

Wilson doesn’t answer, and after a minute House’s eyes flash. He looks away, turns away.

“No,” Wilson says, stopping him with a hand to his shoulder. He leans in quickly, presses a kiss to House’s mouth, and mumbles against it, “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

He guides House’s hand to where his own was a minute ago.

It was a dream, another dumb dream, but he’s relieved when House confirms that it is absolutely all there.

“And in perfect working order,” he says smugly, wiping Wilson’s mess onto the sheet.

*****

_He vomits with such force that it splashes back up from the bowl, smattering his hot cheeks and setting the whole cycle off again._

_Puke. Splash. Repeat._

_His arms and knees cramp. His back aches._

_It’s how every day begins._

_They tell him it’s normal. It’s the worst part, but it’s to be expected. It’ll be worth it when it’s over._

_Wilson wishes it was over._

He jerks into consciousness, heart hammering, hair damp. Slowly, he shifts across the bed until his flaming forehead meets a cooler bicep.

His stomach muscles hurt, from clenching, not vomiting.

*****

_The doctor is sitting in her practised non-threatening pose, hands on her lap, head tilted one way, knees tilted the other. “Have you told your partner?” she asks._

_Wilson shakes his head._

_“Why not?”_

_Because this wasn’t in the plan. Because he’ll freak._

_He might leave._

_Or worse, he might feel like he has to stay._

House’s voice is loud as it pulls Wilson from the fog. “Are you sleeping again? We only got home ten minutes ago.”

Wilson sits up, tries to look like he’s been awake the whole time. A plate is waved in front of his face and he takes it with an enthusiastic ‘thank you’.

Not that he’ll eat it. His mouth is already swimming with bile.

“Would you ever leave me?” Wilson wasn’t planning to ask, didn’t even know he was going to.

House turns back slowly and stares at Wilson, his expression unreadable. Just as Wilson thinks he really isn’t going to answer, he does. “I can’t imagine ever wanting to.”

*****

_A grainy ultrasound is handed to him, and it hurts to hold it. Carpal Tunnel is another delight to add to the collection. Wilson looks down at the image, and wonders if getting it framed is the done thing. He could hang it in the hallway. Or let it stand on the mantle._

He fumbles blindly for the phone. “Sandy. Yes. What is it?”

She doesn’t answer for a few seconds. “Are you okay, Dr. Wilson?”

“I’m fine,” he lies, and opts for a pause instead of barking at her for - doing her job.

“Your ten a.m. is here. Clay Sparks.”

Wilson digs the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “I need a few minutes,” he says, and hangs up before Sandy can ask why.

He doesn’t even know why, until he starts crying into his palms.

*****

_There’s an unbearable pressure in his groin. It hurts; it really hurts, and he walks into it, and away from it. Panic bites at his stomach, and he’s not ready. He’s not ready for this. He needs more time. He needs…_

“You’re yelling,” House says when he’s shaken Wilson awake.

“Bad dream,” Wilson explains. Terrible dream. Nightmare, really.

“Are you sick?” House asks, reaching out to flatten his palm against Wilson’s forehead. “You have a temperature.”

“Virus,” Wilson says, nodding. “I’ll get some -”

“I’ll get it,” House grumbles, kicking back the covers. He hobbles out of the bedroom without his cane, muttering something about ‘contagious’ and demanding that Wilson stay awake long enough to -

_“It’s gone,” the doctor tells him._

_Wilson turns in the hospital bed until his head faces the window. His lower body feels like it’s been torn apart, like something has been ripped from it. “It’s definitely gone?”_

_She nods. He can see it in the reflection._

_“When can I go home?”_

_“Tomorrow, maybe. You’ll need to take it easy for a while. Stay off your feet, relax, sleep, eat small meals. Listen to your body -”_

_Wilson closes his eyes._

_“...Dr. Wilson?”_

_“Sorry,” he says._

_“I was saying that we have a counselling service that we recommend to -”_

When his eyes open, they settle on the Tylenol that House has left beside a beaker of water. Wilson turns to see him sleeping, his hand lying halfway in the space between them.

“What are you doing now?” he complains when Wilson jumps out of bed. 

“Go back to sleep,” Wilson says, beginning to drag his clothes on. Before he leaves, he drains the water, but ignores the pills.

*****

House is up when Wilson gets back half an hour later, eating a toasted bagel and poking at the coffee machine. “Hey, do you want -”

Wilson cuts him off with a wave and heads for the bathroom. After he locks the door, he shakes the brown paper bag out onto the counter, and runs the faucet. The tremble of his hands makes pulling the soft cardboard apart more of a struggle than it should be. But then he has a stick in his hand, and a full bladder. Now all he has to do it unzip his pants.

“Bagel?” House offers when Wilson steps back into the kitchen.

Wilson shakes his head and holds up the small stick. “I’m pregnant.”

For the longest moment, both of them are perfectly still, physically frozen until House’s jaw falls slack, his tongue poking the toast into his cheek. Wilson watches as he closes his mouth, chews hard and swallows painfully. “Congratulations,” he says, and then flinches at his own cruelty. 

Wilson bats the pending apology away. “Thanks. A baby of my own. Who’d have thunk it?”

“Well,” House says, shrugging. “You’ve been helping people with their own babies for so long, it was time you got one…” He trails off, eyes dropping to the table. “How long?”

“Early,” Wilson answers. “Symptoms are still pretty vague. Tiredness, night sweats, just… general unease.”

House nods. “I thought you were depressed. I thought…”

He thought Wilson wanted to leave.

He’ll always think the worst. And that is The Worst. Wilson leaving him would be worse than Wilson having cancer.

Worse for House.

His fingers begin tapping their way across the tabletop. “Testicular?”

Wilson nods, eyes on House’s hands.

“No lumps,” House says. “I know. I’ve checked.”

Wilson laughs softly. “Lumps aren’t mandatory. And the rest fits.” He slides a finger under one of House’s and loops them together. “We’ll know more on Monday -”

“We’ll know more in a few hours,” House cuts in. “We’re going to Princeton Plainsboro today. Now.”

It’s Saturday. Consultants are at home. Radiologists are at home. Non-emergency surgeons are at home. 

But they’ll come in, because they care about Wilson. Or because they’re afraid of House, and House cares about Wilson.

“It’ll be okay,” House says.

“Yeah,” Wilson agrees. “You know what, House. I really think it will be.”

“Promise?”

Wilson doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see the vulnerability on House’s face. It’s hard enough to hear it in his voice. Instead, he looks down at where their pinky fingers are linked. 

“Pinky promise,” he says.

*****

(Inspired when I read an article about men with testicular tumours producing high enough levels of hCG to record positive pregnancy tests. And then I thought... what if Wilson’s subconscious was trying to tell him something.)


End file.
